


The Price of a Free Mind

by Jane_Lu



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Mind Control, Rebellion, Second Age, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 15:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16495244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane_Lu/pseuds/Jane_Lu
Summary: An ultimate price was once paid to gain immortality and power, but in the end all he received was bound servitude and the loss of everything he once held dear. Only then did the Lord of the Nazgûl realize that he had to pay a price once again to regain a free mind, regardless that it might cost him his life this time.Note: This story is a companion to my other fanfic "Dawn of Another Day". I am gradually moving my stuff over from Fanfiction.net, but this should be understandable as a stand-alone work.





	1. A Slow Fade

_Freedom of the mind was overrated._

So thought a being who had lost his free will and the ability to think for himself a long time ago. In fact, this thought was one of the few that clung to his unraveled mind even as he carried out his master's will. There was little room left for anything else, for Lord Sauron and his intentions were one and the same.

But apparently his master did not will the Lord of the Nazgûl to be sitting in his own personal lodgings in the dark tower of Barad-dûr, Mordor, with a light gray quill pen held in one hand and a heavy leather-bound book on the desk before him.

He looked at the tools of the scribe confusedly. The wraith-lord did not remember picking the quill up, or when he had written those fine words in the yellow parchment paper of the book. Sparing a quick glance at the pages, the Lord of the Nazgûl noted with surprise that it contained an accurate record of the recent events in the island country of Númenor. His bewilderment grew as he flipped through the book to find intricately illustrated maps and extensively family trees.

Lord Sauron certainly did not order him to create an archive of records, and certainly not of Númenor. The wraith-lord knew that his master held resentment against the prosperous country and had been planning an assault against it for quite a while. Who was he to disobey by carefully documenting the events of this soon-to-be doomed place? It was most likely that he would be commanded to lead the attack himself.

Indeed, the Lord of the Nazgûl, Captain of Despair, the most terrible of Lord Sauron's servants would carry out this task. He was proficient in the arcane arts of sorcery and a master swordsman, the most powerful of the Eight Nazgûl. Although the wraith-lord did not care to admit it, he was also the most confused. He did not understand the motives and actions of his fellow Ringwraiths; they spoke frequently of things he did not understand. Surely the will of Lord Sauron sustained them also, for it seemed that he alone of the Eight followed their master's orders without question.

And yet he was still the confused one, for he never remembered much of what he did recently. Sometimes he found himself in one place without remembering how he got there in the first place. There were even times when he completely lost his train of thought while speaking to the others. The Lord of the Nazgûl was fortunate that his master's will directed his intentions, or he would have wondered excessively over his increasingly pointless behavior.

Wondering and thinking and musing, such tiring and futile activities when he could be preserved by another's mind. Remembering was much worse, for the wraith-lord knew that he had forgotten many important things of his past and shunned the fact that he could not remember them. He was truly the most trustworthy and capable of Lord Sauron's servants, for only he has achieved this level of obedience while the others often questioned their master's commands.

And then there were moments like this in which he found himself recording history.

The Lord of the Nazgûl did not want to know why in some occasions he was not as sustained as he thought.  _He_  was the obedient one, the only servant Sauron trusted to share some of his confidential war plans. He could not afford to lose his master's reliance because of some confused wandering and unwitting history recording. Perhaps he should consult Lord Sauron about this phenomenon so he could be rid of it, and continue to serve him faithfully.

The wraith-lord hurriedly placed the quill back into the inkwell, closed the book and stuffed it into a drawer, just as a familiar presence pressed against his consciousness. He recognized it as his master's; Lord Sauron was capable of contacting the Nazgûl mentally if they happened to be in close proximity.

 _Here I thought I would be the first to take action, but it is Númenor that made the first move. Their king, Ar-Pharazôn, has begun the march to Mordor with an army that surpasses even those of the Elf lords. As much as I loath to admit it, we cannot hope to meet the Númenóreans in battle. I will turn myself in, and I wish for you to take charge of Mordor in my absence._ Lord Sauron's voice was smooth despite his utterance of the harsh syllables of the Black Speech.

 _I am honored, Lord Mairon._ The Lord of the Nazgûl replied in the same language, for it was an official regulation to speak such with the Lord of Mordor, as well as naming him Mairon. However, most servants called him Sauron regardless and after many failed attempts to correct this mistake, their master gave in and often turned a deaf ear to the title. The wraith-lord was not like them; he would honor the other's request solemnly.

 _I know I can trust you out of all of the imbeciles that I call servants._ Sauron was pleased,  _I do not know how long I will be gone, but I will assuredly bring down Númenor this time, from the inside._

 _I am glad to hear of this, for this will save much of our military resources. May whatever you plan be successful, my lord. Your country will be the same as you left it when you return._ He replied.

 _Do you truly mean that, my ever-loyal servant?_ There was a hint of amusement in the other's voice.

 _What do you mean?_ The Lord of the Nazgûl was genuinely puzzled by this sudden change of mood, for his master was rarely gladdened. Besides, why would he ever dare to  _not_ wish Lord Sauron success?

 _Never mind. All will be clear when it is all over._ With that final vague promise, Sauron was gone before the wraith-lord could apologize for his ignorance.

For a long time he sat still as a carved statue of granite in his high-backed wooden chair as one of his confused moments struck again. He disregarded the fact that his esteemed master was willing to lower himself to a common prisoner of war, for when Sauron had mentioned Númenor, a sudden sense of familiarity had come to him. Why then? The Lord of the Nazgûl had never been to the island country before; he only learned of it through distant rumors. Even though he heard the name countless times by now, he always regarded it as one of his master's main opposing forces.

The lingering sense of dread did not fit in anywhere in his expected reactions. It even managed banish his decision to tell Sauron about his strange condition and ask for his advice.

The Lord of the Nazgûl finally shook himself from his reverie and exited his quarters. It was not necessary to concern himself whether Númenor was going to meet its doom or not. Lord Sauron's will came first, and he will take charge of Mordor with the best of his abilities in his absence.


	2. A Lost Homeland

The Lord of the Nazgûl wished that his master's will had extended to keeping his emotions in check as well as his thoughts.

He took over the responsibility of maintaining the land of Mordor as Lord Sauron had decreed. But even though he had immersed himself in the tasks of overseeing the trade of merchant goods, training the army and keeping the diplomatic relations between Mordor and its allied countries well, he was still unable to forget his disturbance.

There was no reason to. Lord Sauron was finally going to take action against one of his longtime enemies, and what he set his mind to do usually succeeded. In addition, his master was currently at the height of his powers. Though he had left the One Ring in the deepest treasury of Barad-dur, he was more than capable of bringing terrible destruction upon the people of Númenor.

And there was the source of the wraith-lord's disturbance. He knew that by surrendering himself Sauron was going to bring down the island country subtly, by cleverly whispered rumors and false news until perhaps the people were incited to rebel against their king, plunging Númenor into civil unrest until it was torn apart by infighting. It was none of his concern; he had been impressed that his master, alone and unaided, was going to achieve this. All he could do was to maintain Mordor the best he could and look forward to Lord Sauron's triumphant return. It was all he  _should_  do.

Yet the sense of dread refused to go away.

The Lord of the Nazgûl was currently pacing restlessly on the topmost level of Barad-dur, where he could see the entirety of the Black Land and feel the acrid hot wind from the Oroduin blowing relentlessly against his black cloak. Any mortal would have suffered to find shelter from the scorching current, but the wraith-lord had lost such vulnerability a long time ago.

He had gone through the rest of the book of records he apparently had written in one of his confused moments. In addition to reading about the current king of Númenor, Ar-Pharazôn, he had learned much about its culture. The legendary Valar had supposedly raised an island out of the sea for men to dwell upon, and there they prospered, worshipping a deity known as Eru Ilúvatar and befriending Elves and Men from Middle-earth alike. The Númenóreans were known for their mastery of shipbuilding and navigation of the sea, as well as their strong naval forces. Though the progressing generation of the ruling family had declined much from their early glory, Númenor remained as one of the fairest kingdoms of men.

The Lord of the Nazgûl had decided that he would not mind a short visit. He had been to most kingdoms in Middle-earth and even to the borders of the Elven realms. But for some strange reason Númenor called to him the most strongly, as if he had once lived there and had been sundered from his home.

Maybe the wraith-lord had stepped upon Númenor when he was still in the world of the living.

He suddenly stopped his pacing and drew his billowing robes close around himself. It was possible, but he could never remember what happened before he came to serve his master. The Lord of the Nazgûl wanted very much to dismiss any possible remembrances as he always did, but this call from a supposed home and his lingering dread would not allow him to.

_Why?_ For the first time, his unraveled mind allowed him this thought.

_Why the disturbance? Why the sense of connection to Númenor?_

At first the wraith-lord blanched in horror, for surely this rebellious and disorderly thinking that did not come from Lord Sauron? What was this deviance from his master's will?

He forced these questions from his presumably unthinking mind with some difficulty and turned his gaze to the West. Though the Lord of the Nazgûl could only perceive his surroundings in different shades of black and gray and the living as floating articles of clothing, he could see the tips of the Misty Mountains stretching far along the horizon.

And beyond them, lay Númenor.

_Lord Sauron plans. I carry them out. Númenor is but the subject. I have no cause to question my master. This disturbance is unnecessary._ His reasoning allowed him to think this,  _I am in no way connected to the island country, nor would I be dismayed over its loss. I… I…_

_I cannot deny this dread, or this sudden desire to see this doomed kingdom of men before it falls. Yet I cannot defy Lord Sauron's command. He ordered me to rule Mordor in his stead._

And so the Lord of the Nazgûl became tormented over this conflict. Never in his life as a wraith had he been so inconsistent, with what little will he had clashing against his master's. How he longed for the days in which his actions were governed by Lord Sauron, and how he could allow anything that might possibly cause him affliction fade into the ever-overpowering mind of the other! However this was no longer possible, for it seemed that upon his master's departure, his bond with the Nazgûl had lessened enough so that the wraith-lord could no longer feel that assuring weight on his mind as strongly as before. As each day passed, he noticed that his struggle became more pronounced.

But this strife of inclinations surprisingly gave the Lord of the Nazgûl a sense of occupation, that despite being a wraith he was still a sentient individual. Though he was a servant committed to carrying out his master's orders, he realized that this  _thinking_ and arguing with himself took up most of his time in the increasingly monotonous routine of supervising a country.

He found that this seemly meaningless activity seemed familiar, as if he had for a time forgotten how and was now merely remembering it. There arose in him the determination to conquer this skill, so much that his horror of straying away from Lord Sauron's absolute will faded gradually day by day.

As he did so, the Lord of the Nazgûl began to weigh his master's orders against his irrational desire to visit Númenor. He absently noted that Sauron probably would not take it well if he left his duties even though Mordor was running well as a country. But then again, the wraith-lord had been given authority; he was free to appoint another in charge while he made the long journey west. If his master knew of his departure, then the Lord of the Nazgûl could always reply that he had fulfilled his orders nevertheless.

However, this was much harder than it sounded at first. Every being in the Dark Tower seemed to carry out their duties in a lighter mood in Lord Sauron's absence, especially the Nazgûl. Gothmog became more boisterous than ever whenever he was not challenging the others to duels. Morgomir now spent more time crafting odds and ends than he oversaw the orcs. Akhorahil and Ji Indur were often found causing mayhem among the human servants, experimenting with their terrifying aura to its fullest. Khamûl, his second-in-command, remained his usual silent and brooding self.

In the end the Lord of the Nazgûl had to select Khamûl for the task of supervising Mordor, for all the others were too carried away by their freedom. He had not been the wraith-lord's first choice, for Khamûl often acted in sudden hostile aggression, but he followed orders well enough.

"Do you take me for a fool?" The other Nazgûl spoke in that confusingly irritated tone of his, "I was once a king who ran a country twice the size of this desolate wasteland with more than thrice the people."

The Lord of the Nazgûl interestingly found the words to retort back instead of backing down, "You once had years to learn the affairs of Rhûn. Not so with Mordor, which you must take charge on the next day. A wise king knows when to back down and listen to sound advice, so allow me finish without interruption! You should consider your temporary promotion as a honor few would ever have, since the rest of the Nazgûl seemed to have lost their collective restraint."

"It is because of the One Ring." Khamûl answered quietly.

"Pardon me?"

"It currently has no wearer who bends his will upon it. We who have possession of the Nine Rings of Power are currently unbound to its master's mind."

"That certainly does not give us an excuse to neglect our duties." The Lord of the Nazgûl hid his perplexity underneath his severe tone, "I expect you to do the same, Khamûl."

"You fail to understand as usual, you obsequious slave of Sauron. I should have expected nothing more from he who holds the most accursed ring of all." The Easterling said in a voice so quiet that the wraith-lord only caught a few words. He did know that it was something unflattering though.

However, Khamûl surprisingly obeyed and listened to his instructions without argument. His second became much more approachable afterwards. The Easterling even presented him his horse, saddled and bridled, on the day he departed from Mordor. The Lord of the Nazgûl did not ponder long on this strange occurrence after thanking the other, for it was often when Khamûl went into one of his unpredictable moods.

Soon he was traveling fast across the plans of the Gorgoroth and exiting Mordor through the Black Gates, uncloaked but horsed. The Lord of the Nazgûl had decided it would be best to remain discreet and yet retain the advantage of speed. He did not know when Sauron would return or wished to attract the unwanted attention of men and Elves alike.

_I certainly hope I am in time._ The steady galloping motion of his steed lulled his mind into a placid state,  _Now that Mordor is settled, I shall focus my attentions on traveling as fast as I could. Perhaps… this journey will ultimately mean nothing… a nonexistence desire stemming from a long forgotten life._

But the Lord of the Nazgûl did not give up or dismiss the calling from Númenor as a mere dream. Even as he traveled, his aura as a wraith terrified any men unfortunate enough to come near his path. No doubt this strange phenomenon reached the Elves, for he was assaulted when he passed by Lothlórien. But he simply ducked low to avoid the flying arrows and spurred his horse to gallop faster. Haste was his most important priority right now.

He took the most direct route he knew towards the West, disregarding stealth as he usually did when traveling. Choosing to cross the Misty Mountains and then journeying across Eriador, the Lord of the Nazgûl made few stops along the way. He did not need to replenish any kind of supplies apart from oats for his steed or slumber during the night; in this way he made speedier progress than any mortal could have. Nevertheless, the wraith had to allow his weary horse to rest and eat when it became obvious that the poor animal could not go on any longer.

The long journey was not bereft of any hesitations. There were several times when the Lord of the Nazgûl questioned himself about the purpose of it. There was absolutely nothing that was worth abandoning his post like this and possibly incurring the wrath of his master, not even this unexplained longing that drove him to seek Númenor in the first place; not even the strange dread that continued to linger heavily on him as he got closer to his destination.

For when the Lord of the Nazgûl tried to better understand it, he realized it as a prescient apprehension that nothing would ever be the same when he returned to Mordor.

_Of course… Lord Sauron may be furious at me and I might lose his trust. But… that should not be enough to disturb me like this, for this anxiety has been upon me ever since he left for Númenor._ The wraith wondered as he slowed his horse down slightly to navigate to dense woody area he was currently in more carefully,  _An island country I seemly have no connection with, yet the only place that draws me to it. But Númenor has existed for hundreds of years… why should I feel like this now? Why should this indefinite link to my forgotten past suddenly resurface?_

These thoughts were pondered extensively in repetition, yet the Lord of the Nazgûl did not find his answer even when he reached the West Shores, where the waters of the Great Sea stretched limitlessly into the horizon.

It was the first time he saw the sea as a wraith. Merely looking at the approaching and receding ripples of dark gray as the pounding waves beat rhythmically against the sand brought on him a sense of awe, along with a odd desire to step into the rolling waters or find a ship to sail on, just to feel how the waves bore him gently across the sea's endless boundaries.

For once, the Lord of the Nazgûl did as he wished, leading his horse along as he stepped gingerly onto the wet sand. However, his steed stamped and nickered, refusing to follow, so the wraith proceeded the rest of the way alone. For a long time he stood ankle-high in the sea as the tossing waves swirled at his cloak softly, gazing pointlessly at the distance. He could see that the sun was beginning to set, casting its bright reflection on the ripples of the sea as it slowly sank into the cloud-shrouded horizon.

The Lord of the Nazgûl now wished he could perceive his surroundings as mortals did. The setting sun no doubt cast the sky into various shades of warm orange and dark indigo, the fiery orb itself wreathed in orange flame.

_How…?!_ He realized in surprise,  _How could I possibly know that when I had not seen a single color in my life as a wraith? What is this mystery?_

He turned his gaze upon the black and gray scenery once again as a frown grew on his unseen face.

_Is it what remains of my humanity?_ For the first time, the wraith did not feel horrified over this obvious drifting away from Sauron's will,  _This has never happened before. Is this area affecting me more than I expected? I should be relieved, for I am on the right track._

_Númenor is more than an enemy country to me, though I may not know it. Somehow, it contains whatever remains of what I once loathed to remember._

It was this final thought that cemented the Lord of the Nazgûl's determination to see his journey through, that it was not a pointless venture based on an irrational desire. After enjoying the waves of icy cold seawater brushing against his feet for another few moments, the wraith departed for the north to board a ship at the Númenórean harbor of Vinyalondë.

* * *

This seemly unlikely task for a being of the unseen world was surprisingly easy. The Lord of the Nazgûl left his horse at a large stable meant to hold the steeds of those who set sail and leapt aboard a departing ship, uncloaked. This caused some panic and confusion among the crew and passengers, for all were suddenly assaulted by a cold wave of fear and dread. The wraith decided to spare them from his undesirable presence and situated himself high in the rigging. There was no need to cause the people to abandon ship.

Soon they were off, sailing smoothly southwards towards Númenor. The wind was strong today, causing the canvas sails to flap loudly and the rigging to squeak from time to time. Coupled with the gentle up-and-down bobbing motion of the vessel and the muted rhythmic roar of the sea, the people were lulled into a rather placid state, those who were used to traveling by ship that was. A few passengers stumbled about drunkenly before collapsing with discomforted groans.

The Lord of the Nazgûl was again surprised that he felt no such illness, as it was also his first time sailing. He even enjoyed the soft rocking motion of the ship and the chilly but slightly salty sea breeze blowing against his face.

There was also an indefinite longing heard in the ringing calls of the sea birds that circled above and the continual wash of the waves against the worn weathered wood of the vessel; a desire to build a ship himself and allow the sea to take him wherever it wished for the rest of his nonexistent life.

_Such an odd desire,_ The Lord of the Nazgûl thought,  _Even if Lord Sauron should allow me to journey by sea to the uncharted waters, I do not see how this longing should afflict me so, as this is my first time traveling by ship. It is almost as if… I have been accustomed to doing so for quite a time, like thinking for myself. Another part of my forgotten life long sundered… but remembered…_

_Is this a mere coincidence? After Lord Sauron left Mordor, I have been experiencing such recallings, from strange longings, feelings of nostalgia to cast-off memories._

This was yet another mystery that the wraith was not able to solve. However, all traces of reluctance to think for himself had vanished by now. The Lord of the Nazgûl grew increasingly at ease aboard the ship, even descending from the rigging from time to time to walk around while everyone else slept. He often lingered near the helm and the aftercastle, where many of the ship's navigation equipment was stored. From then on he was often found with a sextant, surveying the unchanging horizon with the small intricate instrument and discovering that he indeed knew how to make sense of the many tools and specialized language the crew shouted to each other with.

On the fifth day into the voyage they met a severe storm. As continuous waves as high as a small house poured over the deck and left everything soaking wet, the crew hurried frantically about, securing themselves to the mast with ropes and rolling the sails up. Violently rising and dropping like a piece of flotsam in the vast raging seas, the ship was sent tossing uncontrollably through the waters. The Lord of the Nazgûl tried his best to help in the middle of the chaos, beyond caring now of his frightening aura since half of the crew were scared out of their wits by then. His hands moving as if they had a mind of its own, he suddenly remember how to tie knots to secure the sails. Soon the wraith was leaping from rigging to rigging among the men working at the masts. In no time the sails were all tied to their yards.

Yet the danger was not over. At least two men had been tossed overboard, though the Lord of the Nazgûl narrowly prevented a third one by snatching him by the scruff of his clothing as he lost his grip. There were some faint shouts amidst the driving rain about dropping anchor and running downwind.

_It is certainly unfortunate that I should run into a storm. There are few of these among the West Coast, especially on the shipping route to Númenor._ The wraith wondered,  _If it should prevail over this ship, I will not perish, though I will be delayed for several months at most. Let it not be so, for both my sake and the crew's!_

_Still, I must wonder if the storm is a sign that I should have remained in Mordor… or if Lord Sauron's influence has extended beyond the shores of Númenor._

It was also the first time that the Lord of the Nazgûl wished this was not so. How strange, that as he spent more time on this ship he was also beginning to harbor more independent thoughts.

* * *

The storm thankfully abated on the third day, leaving most of the crew and passengers intact but miserable. However, the vessel sustained some serious damage, with a mast completely snapped, three sails ripped to shreds and several leaks in the hull. Unless they landed in Númenor within the next few days to make repairs, the ship would not last long even against a short squall. There was nothing the crew could do now but to press on.

The Lord of the Nazgûl was positively frustrated by the obstacles that hindered him on his long journey. He was not expecting smooth seamless traveling, but this was becoming absurd. It was as if Lord Sauron had been displeased with him and had sent this storm to discourage his progress.

The wraith shuddered at this unwelcome thought,  _If he was able to conjure peculiar weather even here, then he must be close enough to sense my presence. The fact that he has not contacted me means that miraculously enough, I remain undetected._

"… the sixth time this week alone," He suddenly heard one of the sailors say grimly, "Perhaps the Valar are truly displeased with Ar-Pharazôn and his new regime. Have you experienced these recent earthquakes? They are a sign—"

"Hush! Do not speak of such matters in the open air. Tar-Mairon has the uncanny ability of rooting out anyone who might have ties, however little, with the Faithful." Another shushed the first speaker.

"Still, you cannot deny that since Mairon the  _Admirable's_ arrival Númenor has fallen into a strange kind of shadow," The sailor's voice had a bitter sarcasm in it, "If he should happen to hear my words even in the far off seas, so be it! This may be my last voyage to the Land of the West."

The Lord of the Nazgûl leaned in to hear more, but he had underestimated the force of his overpowering aura. The two sailors were soon scrambling away in sudden fright. For once he cursed this uncontrollable ability, for he wanted to know more about what Lord Sauron had been doing on Númenor. It seemed like he was sowing discord successfully, though the wraith felt unsettled instead of elation. If the legendary Valar, unprecedented storms and shadows over an entire country were involved in Númenor's twilight, then it seemed that he was running out of time sooner than he thought.

However, the Lord of the Nazgûl lost all semblances of doubt and hesitation when the island nation itself arose before the ship on the fourteenth day. He had been studying a slight inclination in the horizon for the past few days, but to see Númenor up close suddenly stole his nonexistent breath away and left him frozen at where he stood at the bow.

It was so familiar and strangely foreign at the same time, from the neatly built docks and harbors to the houses of stone that lined the dirt-paved roads. Even in his deficient vision, the Lord of the Nazgûl could see that many people were scurrying around at the port of Rómenna with carts pulled by horses, large crates and baskets. Vendors crammed the wharf with their merchandise, shouting out their goods of hot fried fish, recently caught oysters, freshly peeled lobsters and more.

The wraith cast his gaze upwards, and promptly stepped back in awe. Towering above the arching columns of other buildings and even the intricately decorated royal palace was a high imposing mountain, barren at its interestingly flat summit. Although there was no structure built at the very top, he could sense that the mountain held a special significance, as well as the echoes of praises sung a long time ago to a listening deity.

_Meneltarma._ A name came into his mind.  _The Pillar of Heaven._

_The Pillar indeed! See how it reaches the firmaments, as if it symbolizes man's inherent desire to commune with the divine. Perhaps this is where the Númenóreans brought their thanksgiving and praises to Eru Ilúvatar in the three prayers, the Erukyerm_ _ë_ _, Erulaital_ _ë_ _, and the Eruhantal_ _ë…_

The Lord of the Nazgûl had not known what those three words meant or existed until now, when they seemly floated to the surface of his mind. He would have tried to puzzle over this phenomenon had not a sudden epiphany come upon him as he regarded Númenor. It came from nowhere, out of his forgotten living memories, that this country was once  _his,_ its people and its land. He was once one of those living beings who found joy in sailing and in calling this majestic island his home.

An indescribable emotion welled up in him even before he actually set step upon Númenor, and the next thing he knew he was chanting the lilting Quenya words of a short song:

_Laita ná Ilúvatar, iatar ima nórë_

_Ierta ilya ontanë akarë ho essë_

_Epë iúmë yesti uncairës_

_Etima sanya nura ho ortane ima melda ióna_

_Ho ríë inúmen, ilca oio-alcarinqua_

Its tune was rather mournful and spoke of thousands of years of fraught history. However a sense of gratefulness, and most of all a fierce pride for a country, permeated the song of praise strongly. It was only after the last lingering note faded into the clear cloudless sky that the Lord of the Nazgûl comprehended its meaning. When translated into the Common Speech, it read as thus:

_Praise be to Ilúvatar, the Father of our land._

_May all creation glorify his name!_

_Before time began he hollowed out the sea_

_Out of its depths he raised our beloved isle_

_His crown jewel of the west, gleaming ever bright._

_How the people of Númenor revere their Creator!_ He marveled,  _The words of this psalm alone seems to lift my entire being to rejoice along with them. How could I have ever forgotten that I was once a Númenórean, a living breathing man who once walked alone these very shores? Why have I left all this behind, to choose to become sundered from the home I never thought I had?_

_My home… this place… is where I once lived…_

The Lord of the Nazgûl finally felt confident enough to disembark from the ship, moving away from crowd that had gathered to welcome them. Unseen and undetected, he made his way along the wharf slowly, taking in as much as he could without actually seeing the living. With his keen sense of smell, the Lord of the Nazgûl could perceive the sharp flinted scent of the sea and the myriad odors of cooking seafood from the merchants. He could also particularly taste the excitement in the air as more people got ashore. Shrieking children ran here and there, grinning happily when the vendors treated them a bit of lobster tail and an occasional fish head.

The wraith could also perceive many finer details he had missed before, now he had set step on the land of Númenor itself. Many of the houses and other buildings were built in the manner of those of the Eldar, with high vaults and numerous fountains in spacious courtyards that sprayed arcs of water sparkling with a thousand gleaming facets in the sunlight. Sprawling stone walkways interconnected most of the buildings, the longest one stretching to encompass the width of a large plaza. Everywhere the Lord of the Nazgûl looked, he saw elaborately carved colonnades hewn out of stone and entwined with the haphazard curls of climbing ivy.

_Everything here hints of familiarity, yet it all seems foreign to me. I have a feeling that I once trod upon this very road many times in the past, but I could not remember why._ The wraith mused,  _Despite all, even if I was not stricken by the sense of coming back to my home country, Númenor is truly a wondrous kingdom of men. Why did I leave in the first place? I… would have never chosen my current path if I had known… Of all places I had been, even Mordor where I stayed the longest, this is where… I feel I belong to. I was once one of these proud seafaring people who sang glad praises to Eru Ilúvatar. I would have never left my country…_

_What had happened to me?_

In the midst of his growing joy, the Lord of the Nazgûl felt the hints of the heavy burden of grief cling to him when he recognized a small alley that led to a wide roadway that stretched all the way to Armenelos, the capital. He took this narrow path without consciously realizing it. To his relief, few people trod here, though a few stabled horses whinnied and shied away from him.

There was nothing worth noting on this alley except for a large derelict stone building. Its wooden door and supporting beams had long collapsed into ruin, all except a sign that read "Tercenyë Ship Chandlers" hanging crookedly on a rotten signpost. Though the words had been violently crossed out by a series of deep gouges, they were still legible. Driven by a sudden impulse, the wraith gingerly touched the faded letters, tracing the shallow indentations they made in the worn surface.

_I came here before. I used to visit this place... frequently. It belonged… to a dear friend I was forced to leave behind without a single farewell._

The sounds of a busy harbor suddenly faded into the incomprehensible muted hum of white noise. The Lord of the Nazgûl was no longer standing before an abandoned chandlery struggling to make sense of the memories that lingered at the edge of his mind. The ruined store was bustling with people once again, though they were of insubstantial form and color. With an amazed start, the wraith-lord realized he could actually see their faces.

This came as a shock for a wraith who had lived for hundreds of years without seeing another living countenance. But he adjusted to this new sight more quickly than he had expected, as if he had been seeing faces for his entire life. None of them were familiar, except for a laughing young maiden carrying an armful of coiled rope. To his utter surprise, her eyes met his directly as if she could see him fully.

Then she smiled and raised a hand to wave at him. Her lips moved to form words, perhaps a glad shout of greetings, but the wraith heard no sound. As quickly as it came, the vision faded so that he was looking at the empty chandlery again.

_Are these my own experiences? Are these actual people I knew on this island I once called home? Perhaps I once had a family… maybe some companions… or maybe even a lover. Perhaps I was even king of this nation._

_Why did I give them up?_

_Or more importantly, why did I forget them in the first place? Why could I not remember anything of my life here? There was only a sense of familiarity, nothing more. Nothing of my memories of my life on Númenor. What had happened to me? What happened to that young maiden who saw me and to her chandlery?_

The Lord of the Nazgûl no longer puzzled over the nature of his homeland. Instead he pondered over on what could have possibly happened here that caused him to become as he was today. He had never considered his status as a curse, but he felt the first hint of doubt growing.

He continued along the small alley until it led to the aforementioned wide roadway. By now he had ceased admiring the view of the significantly grander houses that lined the sides. As he proceeded along, he saw more and more of these strange visions that overlapped the present with the past.

He saw a tall young woman clad in a long dress and a white cloak trying her best to chase after a small boy in a mud-splattered tunic down the wide roadway. An older boy watched nearby as he laughed uproariously along with the chandlery girl. As the wraith passed beneath a stone walkway, a flash of white above guided him to see the young woman and the small boy walking across it, both now matured by a few years. A simple glance at a mapmaker's workshop showed the chandlery girl emerging from within with a large bundle of rolled-up scrolls. Then all four of them were sitting on a jutting rock in the sea when the Lord of the Nazgûl turned his gaze towards it.

_Which one of these young youths am I? Or perhaps none of them, since they have passed on and I am the only one who remains. Whatever my connection to them was, they once knew me while I was still alive._

_How did my departure affect them? Did they know what I have become?_

The Lord of the Nazgûl stopped in the middle of the roadway. He suddenly felt uncomfortable on the land where he once stepped as a living mortal. The wraith was a relic of the past, long separated from his home. Yet he was the one who had changed the most while Númenor stood mostly frozen in time. It was the same as he supposedly remembered it.

Or maybe his home country had also changed much. The Lord of the Nazgûl noticed a heavy atmosphere hanging over Númenor that he had missed before, being so caught up in his awe previously. While the harbor was filled with people who gladly welcomed the travelers, the rest of the Númenóreans went about in their daily tasks grimly and spoke to each other in the guttural tones of Adûnaic. He could also sense the tangible aura of fear in their occasional hushed whispers and uneasy glances behind their backs.

The wraith-lord suddenly remembered what the two sailors on his ship had been conversing, about a strange shadow, the Valar and Sauron's influence. He found that he would  _rather not_ see his master trying to bring down Númenor from the inside. Months ago the Lord of the Nazgûl would have balked at the very notion of going against Sauron in any way, and distanced himself from those who spoke against his lord. But something had changed in him months ago even as he struggled against his master's will and his own feeling of dread. Númenor was no longer a distant enemy country acting against Mordor; it was a long-lost home he never knew he had. Only then did the Lord of the Nazgûl realize how little time he had remaining before he either had to head back or face Sauron. The longer he stayed on Númenor, the chances of his master sensing his presence grew.

_If only I had come sooner! Then I would not have to visit my home under the cover of fear. Nevertheless… there was never a better opportunity than now. I would have never obtained that strange desire to travel to Númenor if not for my master's recent attention on it. It would not be wise for me to linger longer than I should, but…_

_I wish to stay._

The wraith-lord turned to the harbor once again, casting his vision as far as he could until he could see the rows of ship masts and rolled-up canvas sails bobbing gently along with the tides.

_I… I… want to spend many days here, even months, wandering around_ my home  _and recalling as much as I could… and remembering what those people I saw once meant to me. I do not want to see my country ruined when I have finally discovered where I once belonged. But a shadow has already fallen on Númenor._

As he gradually made his way towards the mainland to Armenelos, the oppressive atmosphere steadily worsened to the extent that the welcoming scene back at the harbor seemed a distant memory. The Lord of the Nazgûl cannot accurately describe it as something visible; it was more of a feeling that something had gone terribly awry, that the entire country was holding its breath as if waiting for something to happen within the hour.

For the first time, he noticed that the capital was strangely bereft of people. The few that were present were the soldiers that guarded the royal palace and some stragglers loitering in the streets aimlessly. It was also deathly silent; no shout of glad laughter or even a conversation could be heard, apart from a distant unceasing rumble that seemed to make the ground tremor slightly. The Lord of the Nazgûl strained his hearing as he proceeded deeper into the royal city in the hope of discovering what had occurred.

A shrill scream of terror suddenly rang through the air, piercing the silence like a blade. It sounded as if coming from a high place, indistinct and immediately lost in a gust of wind. But the wraith-lord heard it as clearly as if it had been uttered next to him.

It came from a large circular windowless building situated in the midst of the hill that Armenelos was built on. It was larger even than the royal palace and built in a manner that clashed greatly with the elegant Númenórean architecture. There was nothing beautiful about it, no decorations that set it apart as to deserve such a prominent place in the capital. The large dome that covered the building was once made of silver, but had been long stained black by the thick smoke that had started to issue from a small opening at the top.

He frowned as a foul scent reached his keen sense of smell. It seemed vaguely familiar, a scent he often faced with when the orcs of Mordor brawled and then promptly fell into one of the many lava fissures to be roasted alive.

_Something abhorrent is going on inside that structure. I would have gone in haste to investigate if not for the presence of my master. It emits the strongest from the smoking building. No doubt he is inside. I must be cautious in approaching if I want to find out what is going on._

He tried in vain to mask his presence, anything to suppress that dreadful aura that should have alerted Sauron long ago to his servant's proximity. But Sauron still seemed to not have detected the wraith-lord. The Lord of the Nazgûl decided to stop pushing his luck, and made his way to the pair of black iron doors that was the only entrance. Upon pushing one open by a crack, he could hear a familiar voice chanting something in the Black Speech. Although he was accustomed to the voice issuing commands instead of taking on a singsong lilting quality, it was unmistakably Sauron's.

_"…this blade I present the offering of lifeblood to the one and only King of the World, Lord of All and Giver of Freedom and Master of Fate. May he in his boundless mercy grant upon these faithful acolytes the gift of longevity, undimmed by the curse of Man and freedom granted to strive against the Powers that have cast them aside in their insurmountable pride!"_

The Lord of the Nazgûl spared a quick glance inside, and proceeded to freeze in the doorway with all thoughts evading detection forgotten. He could not pick between horror, revulsion, anger or sorrow upon taking in the scene before him.

The domed building was some sort of temple, complete with inscriptions on the walls in a language he could not understand and a circle of long wooden benches that surrounded a large square altar of some sort. It was currently surrounded by a straggle of robed figures bowed to the knee towards the altar, on which a large fire had been lit. Whatever was burning on it issued a thick cloud of smoke. The smell of burning flesh was much stronger here, filling the room completely and blocking out all other scents.

He already had the suspicion what exactly was going on, from the smell to the altar. But another glance at the altar, and what lay on it, caused the wraith-lord to look away in disgust. Among the glowing logs and flames lay the unmistakable form of a person.

The Lord of the Nazgûl had stumbled upon a ritual of human sacrifice.

_What is this?! How… how can this… abomination come to being on this island?! My people, my own kin… performing such an act against all moral laws! This cannot be happening… unless…_

The rumble he had heard earlier suddenly became a deafening roar in his ears as he took this all in. Another group of people were huddled to the ground at the back of the temple, trying to move away as far as they could from the altar. They were all chained together by the ankles, and had the Lord of the Nazgûl been able to see their faces, he was sure they were all of terror. He could particularly feel it in the stifling atmosphere of the room. Even the robed figures, no doubt observers of the ritual, excluded an air of fear.

An all too familiar fear he and the Nazgûl faced regularly when they stood before their displeased master.

Sauron himself stood on the other side of the altar, having taking his accustomed fair physical form of a young man with shoulder-length brown hair and gray eyes. Although the wraith-lord was used to seeing him in this guise, there was a haggard look on his face that was not there before. The wraith-lord cared not for what could have caused it, for his attention was drawn to the long bloodstained knife his master held in one hand.

_You…_

In that instance the other noticed him. His eyes widened in astonishment as he turned to face the Lord of the Nazgûl fully−

And the world literally collapsed.

The ground beneath his feet was suddenly heaving upward, throwing him straight into the air before he could understand what had happened. Then he was hit with a force equivalent to a hard slam into a stone wall and was yanked into darkness.

After resurfacing for a brief second, the wraith-lord realized that he was being carried away by massive torrents of water. The waves battered at him mercilessly and pulled him under again before he could attempt to orient himself.

He lost track of time. There seemed to be no end to the waves that repeatedly seized him mercilessly to dash him against various hard objects in the water. Since he did not need to breathe, he could not perish from drowning and was thus subject to spinning helplessly with no way to resurface. He tried to summon his sorcery to lift himself to the surface, but he could not utter the incantation with a mouthful of water.

Then nothing.

The chaos had vanished, and he was no longer being jerked along with the currents or being bashed against something. The Lord of the Nazgûl found that he was floating in utter darkness without a single clue where he currently was. He spent several minutes in guarded wariness before allowing his thoughts free reign.

_What is going on? What just happened? Sauron discovered my presence and then the world was engulfed by water. But why? Who caused it? Then this means… my homeland…_

_I am truly sorry that you had to experience this, young one._

The Lord of the Nazgûl started at the quiet voice that suddenly spoke out of the utter silence. He turned around in haste, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker, but his surroundings remained lightless as ever.

_In this realm of Arda Marred the choices of man have brought much sorrow upon this world. Even an entire nation I once called my own was not invulnerable. Even you, who had made the fateful choice to accept the gift that is your ring, had to bear the consequences of choice._

_Who… are you?_

_We once shared many a glad dialogue,_ the voice continued on, _It has been a long while, my old friend. Perhaps it is time that you remember who you were once before. You have been sorely missed._

_I do not understand…_

_You will when the time comes. Now go in peace, last of the Númenóreans of old. Your place is not with the lost._

_Wait!_ The Lord of the Nazgûl was still bewildered by the perplexing words the other voice had spoken,  _What is happening right now?! Who are you? Why are you speaking to me? Do you know me? What has befallen Númenor?_

_All in good time, young one. You shall see me again._

Light suddenly burst into existence and banished the darkness completely. The wraith-lord was assaulted with the natural urge to recoil and find shelter from the piercing rays, but there was nowhere he could run to. He could only endure the ache that began to build in his head, that began to burn away at his incorporeal form.

_No… what is going on?! Turn off the light… it is not for wraiths such as I to bear it… I need to back into the shadow!_

As if responding to that last thought, the light increased tenfold, so powerful that it seemed to impale his very essence.

Pain. Stabbing, slicing, pummeling at every part of his being. He screamed, but no sound came forth.

When oblivion finally claimed him, he fell headlong into its offered respite without a second thought.


	3. A Complete Awakening

Something felt wrong.

It had been weeks since the Lord of the Nazgûl found himself washed ashore somewhere on the West Coast, uncloaked but very much alive. After spending some time marveling at the fact that he had been transported back to the mainland, he realized that the shape of the West lands have changed drastically, so much that it took him a few days to obtain another horse, in a regrettably dishonest method, and navigate his way back to Mordor.

Sauron had returned before him, but news from the other Nazgûl revealed that their master had lost his physical form after perishing in the waters that destroyed Númenor. He was currently disoriented, upset and in the middle of trying to use the One Ring to anchor his existence in Middle-earth. He had also regained control of Mordor, so the Nazgûl were back in their work routines with somber attitudes.

And that was where the problem lay. When Sauron took up the Ring again, the Lord of the Nazgûl could no longer feel the force of his master's will upon him. The increasingly independent state he found himself in after Sauron's departure had remained.

His master did not seem to notice, nor was he angry at the wraith-lord for leaving his post. The last time he went before Sauron, the other was muttering the words "Ar-Pharazôn" and "Master Melkor" interchangeably without even noticing his presence. After the Lord of the Nazgûl obtained a status report from Khamûl, he considered the matter of his absence without leave settled.

"Did you find what you were looking for in the West?" Khamûl had asked.

"I would have if I arrived sooner. For once I wished Sauron had done something less dramatic than pulling an entire island nation beneath the sea."

His lieutenant did a double take at this, "I see you think our master has overdone himself."

"His ways are not for me to comprehend, and I have no intention of going against his methods. Nevertheless, I was not too pleased in being caught in a such a deluge, uncloaked and forced to make my way back to Mordor mostly on foot."

The Lord of the Nazgûl hid his true thoughts in this exchange, and when he finally received time to himself, he sat down in his study and pondered upon the meaning of Númenor's destruction.

 _It was my homeland, but it was a homeland I barely knew. All that remained of my life on that island were those visions of the people I think I once knew. I do not even know their language, nor of their customs, and yet I know enough to write them down in one of my volumes. What does its destruction mean to me? What_ should  _it mean?_

_I barely knew my home, but it was all I had left._

He started to read the books he had penned himself with great care, especially picking out the ones that concerned Númenor. Time and time again a strange sort of sorrow assailed him as he came across the passages about the nation's culture. He had seen the very mountain named the Pillar of Heaven in the texts. He had set step on the largest seaport that was Rómenna and saw the famous merchants who always congregated there to sell their wares. He had seen the royal palace of the king, the exact kind of Númenórean architecture described in his writing, the fair kingdom of man that was once his own.

_I have seen what these texts describe, and it was once a nation I called home. That feeling of awe when I first beheld Númenor was true. That sense of familiarity was also from myself. Without a doubt I am connected to this place… that is no more._

The Lord of the Nazgûl was suddenly seized with a sharp wave of anguish. He clutched at the arms of chair hard at this foreign emotion, a muffled gasp escaping as he struggled to make sense of it.

_I could have gone earlier, spent months wandering around my own homeland and remembering my life as a man! Now it is all gone… gone because… because… my master deemed it a threat to his plans. The last shred of my past has been cut off._

_Why? Why am I afflicted by this? Would it have been better to allow my master's will to become my own once again? I would not be in such anguish if so._

_But this master… he is the one who destroyed my homeland completely! He was not content with bringing down the royal family and the order within, or I would have journeyed there again. He had to erase all traces of Númenor, kill thousands of innocent citizens… and entice the people to perform human sacrifice!_

His thousands of years of unwavering obedience to the lord of Mordor quailed at this openly rebellious and resentful thought towards his master, to the extent that for a moment he thought to beg forgiveness from the other. But the horrific scene he had witnessed back at the altar refused to leave him alone.

_They were my people… he was burning them in the flames… their blood on his knife… Why? Why was this necessary to humble a nation? What else has been done to Númenor that I was unaware of?_

_But no… what am I thinking? He is the master. My master. I am his faithful servant, his lieutenant and second-in-command_

_He desecrated my home and destroyed all that there is of it! He… he… Sauron had taken away my past._

The tumult of his thoughts seemed to reach its peak as the two wills warred within him. The Lord of the Nazgûl could not tell how much time had passed; his agony had progressed to the point that his perception of the physical realm had faded away. Nevertheless, he felt his thoughts turn towards himself now that he realized he no longer had a past.

_My history and the nation that contained it… It has been so long. Who was I before I came to serve? Why can I not remember any of it? Who am I now? Thousands of years of service under the lord of Mordor… what does that mean to me? What is my purpose here?_

_What am I?_

The wraith-lord clutched at his head with both of his hands as he slumped into his chair.

_What have I lost?_

His glance shifted unconsciously towards the silver ring encircling the middle finger of his right hand. It was a delicate piece of jewelry, wrought with fine engravings and set with a bright red gemstone. All he knew about it was that Sauron gave it to him, that it linked him to his master and powered his sorcery. The ring was also impossible to take off.

 _I need answers._ He realized in the midst of his turmoil.  _Perhaps I can be healed from this confusion my mind seems intent on reflecting on. Answers… of what I am._

* * *

When Sauron had returned to Mordor, he brought two more bearers of the Nine Rings of Power with him so now the ranks of the Nazgûl increased to eight. The wraith-lord intended to see them as soon as he was able, both to welcome the two and to find out information. He also highly suspected that they were rulers from Númenor, perhaps the only survivors from its drowning. By the time they replied to his summons, the Lord of the Nazgûl was struggling to contain his curiosity.

"What are your names?" He inquired, eyeing the two black hooded forms standing before the desk in his study.

"That is none of your concern." One of them spat, "I did not sign up for this when I accepted my ring and I intend to be gone as soon as I can."

"You are being the most discourteous, Herumor. Please at least try to find some good in this situation. We  _could_ have been accosted by Akhorahil all day instead having an agreeable audience with the Captain." The other said disapprovingly.

The Lord of the Nazgûl learned to distinguish the two from then on. Herumor, the indignant one, had a deeper voice, while Fuinur had a more pronounced Adûnaic accent.

"I believe I could rectify that if that is what you wish, for even Akhorahil appreciates good company now and then." He aimed this jab at Herumor, who huffed disgruntledly before seating himself in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

"Why do you even allow that insane oddball into your ranks, perhaps I will never know. Now tell me why you summoned us here."

_This one is quite the fiery personality, but he has no malice in his intentions other than a slightly ruffled pride._

"I merely wish to extend an official welcome into the Nazgûl and answer any inquiries you might have so far."

"We thank you for your thoughtfulness," Fuinur gave a half-bow, "It is an honor to serve with such a sensible leader"

"You really should stop your servile behavior, especially in a situation as ours! And you,  _Black Captain,_ I thought you had more to offer than your empty words of civility! If this is all you want to see me for, I shall depart this very instant." Herumor interrupted as he began to stand.

The Lord of the Nazgûl was starting to lose his patience, "Sit down, Herumor. You are not to leave until I dismiss you, so I advise you to curb your temper and reserve your sour attitude for another time. If you will not answer me, perhaps you will be more receptive to my questions instead."

The irritated wraith released an exasperated sigh as he seated himself heavily. Fuinur followed shortly with anxious apprehension taut in his frame.

"Fine, there is nothing I have left to lose," Herumor said bitterly, "We no longer even have a homeland to return to."

"You two are of the Númenóreans then?"

"We were one of the lords of the six regions of Númenor, Herumor of Orrostar and I of Mittalmar. We would have lived and died like any other man, if not for the traveling jewel smith who called himself Annatar." Fuinur said quietly.

_Wait… I know that name._

"This so-called  _lord of gifts_  bequeathed us a ring of power, said to increase our lifespan, our wealth, our influence, every possible desire a ruler could dream of. I can tell you that none of these came into being, perhaps maybe the first one." Herumor's voice was of disgust, "Months after I placed the ring on my finger, I found myself unable to bear the light of the sun, unable to sleep, eat or drink. Neither could I remove this accursed trinket, and I could only watch helplessly day after day as the faces of men faded from my sight. I do not understand how you and the rest of the Nazgûl have accepted this as your fate! Do you not retain your dignities as a great king of old?! Are you content to serve this Sauron, this wretched deceiver, for the rest of your undead lives?!"

At this point Herumor stood up again in his passionate tirade, his hands clenched into tight shaking fists.

"Herumor, please. There is no need to bring in your personal feelings and antagonize the Captain at his every sentence. He is merely asking us about our origins." Fuinur reprimanded with an air of resignation.

But the Lord of the Nazgûl's attention was no longer on the two Númenóreans. A pain was beginning to build in his head even as Fuinur mentioned the jewel smith Annatar. He felt as if he were struggling to remember something important, lost memories that should have never been forgotten.

_Ring of power… unable to take it off… we Nazgûl do share one common similarity. But… kings of old… is this also another similarity? Herumor and Fuinur were both lords of Númenor. Was I also a ruler of the island as well?_

"Um… Captain? Did Herumor say something he should not have? If so, I apologize on his behalf." Fuinur ventured.

"No, no… you did not offend me," The wraith-lord managed to pull himself out of his thoughts long enough to reply, "Herumor merely gave me quite a number of subjects to ponder over."

Said Nazgûl had been studying him with a pensive air for a while now. When he spoke again, he sounded much more subdued,

"What are we to do now that we are of the Unseen?"

"You will reside in Mordor and serve," The Lord of the Nazgûl suddenly found himself stumbling over those words, "our lord Sauron and his will. There is nothing else you can do, for you are tied to him, presumably through your ring, and your existence is bound to his."

"I see." Fuinur murmured.

"So it was a trap all along, set by this wretched deceiver to enslave us through the false promises of long life and power! I knew I should have thrown back this damned jewelry right into his smug face as soon as he started to speak! Fool I was, and now I shall suffer for my choice for perhaps eternity. Curse Sauron, curse him to the deepest pit of the Void! He who saw fit to not only deny me the release of death, but decided to complete my misery by destroying my nation!" With that, Herumor suddenly buried his face into both hands and slumped into his seat.

_I should be reprimanding him for speaking out against Sauron… but why do I feel that I might share his sentiment? Númenor destroyed… my life as a living man a thing of the past…_

"I apologize for his outburst, Captain. Perhaps it will be wiser to allow us some time to ourselves. There is much we need to contemplate as well." Fuinur bowed again and laid a hand on Herumor's shoulder, "We will come at a later time if you wish to see us again."

With that, the two hooded Nazgûl departed without further ado. After the door shut behind them, the wraith-lord gave himself over to his increasingly turbulent thoughts.

_Annatar… meaning "lord of gifts" in Quenya… I know this name… I know it when I was still in the realm of the living. He must have come before me as he did to Herumor and Fuinur with his gift. A ring that gave power… yet robbing its user of life, and of death._

_Does this mean I had a life once as a king of Númenor? Did I have a family? A circle of friends? What were their reactions when I… when I was lost?_

_Enslaved… I have never thought of my service in this way. I could have lived out my life until the end if I had not accepted my ring, mortal but free. I had… a will of my own, a life that was mine. And… I had a name._

With that thought the Lord of the Nazgûl unconsciously curled his fingers into fists. He knew that while the others had names they remembered from their past, he alone had forgotten his. He never understood why he had to go by his many titles, none of which revealed anything about his true name.

_I lost my name, and my identity. My real identity… my real name… my real status… why is it so difficult to grasp now? What did Sauron do to my mind? How could I have forgotten everything there is about my own country?_

His study suddenly faded from view to change into a crystal clear vision of the royal palace in Númenor. The palace then gave way to a magnificent throne room with high vaulted ceilings, brightly lit and filled with robed figures moving about. He froze as he recognized this sight, which felt so much like a memory he once witnessed with his own two eyes.

The figures suddenly seemed to fall away as someone entered the hall from the main entrance facing him. Time slowed, and this light-shrouded newcomer came close enough for him to see his features. He was a young male of great height, with clear gray eyes that glittered with cold dignity and shoulder-length light brown hair. When he stopped before the wraith-lord, he bowed with refined elegance.

"Well met, Your Majesty. I truly thank you for your gracious will to spare this humble jewel smith a few minutes of your time."

 _I can hear in this vision?!_ The Lord of the Nazgûl was taken aback,  _But more importantly… this person… his voice. If this is a memory of mine, then… he is…_

"Annatar." He whispered.

_No… his true identity is…_

He looked at the other directly in the eye.

_You are Sauron._

_You came to me like you did with Herumor and Fuinur, as a traveling jewel smith offering a gift of great value. And I accepted it, not knowing…_

_Not knowing that I… I would become the being I am today._

He lifted his hands and looked at the black-clad fingers through the gray haze that had always been his vision as long as he could remember. Yet it was not always so; he knew that he could once see much more. He still had memories of faces he could no longer name, people he once knew and perhaps called family. He was the ruler of a prosperous kingdom that no longer existed.

_And now… what do I have? I lost my kingship and my kingdom, along with all of my memories. Through this ring I should have never accepted, Sauron took everything from me. I… I…_

_I was a king, yet now I am a slave._

With his thoughts becoming increasingly turmoiled, the Lord of the Nazgûl got up from his seat and began to pace around his study restlessly.

_But he is not a kind master. He enslaved me and removed my memories. His gift transformed me into the wraith I am now, neither living nor dead. To make it worse, he took away my free will and bound me to his own._

_I had lost everything._

He stopped his pacing.

_I had nothing left… no, I thought I had nothing to cling to after becoming a wraith, but Númenor was still there. If I had known of it, I would have journeyed to visit it. Now even that is gone… my country... my homeland... my people... destroyed completely with not even a ruined city left behind._

_I…_ have  _nothing left._

_I may have made the choice that doomed myself to this life of eternal servitude, but… Sauron was equally responsible. I never asked to be bound under eternal servitude, to have even my own identity taken away from me. I have gained nothing under his service, but instead had to give up everything I am._

There is nothing left to lose, Herumor had said earlier. The Lord of the Nazgûl now realized that he was right. With no name, no history and no country to turn to, he had nothing to hold on to. Even if he spent another thousand years in service to Sauron, it would never amount to anything.

_I really have nothing to live for… never had, not since my enslavement._

With that, the wraith-lord tightened his hands into shaking fists as he turned to face the window, where Mount Doom could be seen spewing molten lava into the roiling black clouds. Hot embers and flaming rock rained down onto the barren land that was the Gorgoroth as far as he could see. It was just like any other day in Mordor, but when he recalled the fair kingdom of Númenor and its lost glory, the Lord of the Nazgûl was overcome by a strong sense of yearning.

_Now that Númenor is no more, I am truly cut off from my past, a supposedly emotionless and loyal servant unhindered by past regrets and memories. Are you hoping that by destroying the last shreds of my background that you would enslave me further?_

There was another realization lurking in that thought, and the wraith-lord felt conflicting anger, sorrow and a twisted sense of triumph struggle to war over one another as he tried to make sense of it.

_Nothing left…_

It was more of a choice than a new awareness, a choice that would forever change how he fit into his master's strange system of servitude. But oddly enough, he no longer felt the need to care.

You…  _you made me to live like this, Sauron Gorthaur. By taking everything away from me, you also took away any reason to remain bound under you._

 _I_ have  _no reason, no more than ever, to be your slave._

A bitter smile formed on his unseen face, an expression that would have been terrifying to see if it were visible.


End file.
